


All You Left Behind

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining Sherlock, post - the sign of three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle’s over – for now.</p><p>There is only this.  A silent flat.  The sound of rain pattering against the windows.  The hum of the refrigerator.  The occasional pop of dying coals in the hearth—and this empty chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You Left Behind

Boots brand shampoo.

Pears soap.

The slightest tang of sweat.

Small hairs, blond and grey, embedded in the blanket draped over the back.

A stain of strawberry jam on the left arm.

A smudge of printer’s ink on the right.

An indentation in the seat cushion from over two years of use.

All these things are fading.

The passage of time and general disuse are the cause.

Still…

The battle’s over – for now.

There is only this.  A silent flat.  The sound of rain pattering against the windows.  The hum of the refrigerator.  The occasional pop of dying coals in the hearth—and this empty chair.

Things were supposed to be alright.  He’d died so that they would be alright.  He had stayed away for two years-two years of crushing aloneness.  It was supposed to fix it.  That is what it had all been for.  But nothing is right, and nothing ever will be again.

Still…

Tonight the battle is over.  Temporary cease fire.  He should feel better, but he doesn’t.

He sits in his usual spot.  He fishes a fag out of the Persian slipper behind the wood scuttle, and lights it.  He takes a deep drag.  Holds it.  Lets it out again.

The rain outside intensifies.  There is a distant rumble of thunder.

He stares at the chair across from him.  The empty chair.

He allows himself a second fag, and when he finishes it, tosses the butt into the hearth. 

Showers. 

Changes. 

Turns down the bed.

Slips beneath the sheets and lies there – awake. 

Wide awake.

His phone lies on the table beside him.  It is silent.

The condenser on the refrigerator finally shuts off in the kitchen.  A rat or some other small rodent scratches away in the wall behind his bed.  The rain leaks in heavy drops from the eaves to drip onto the window sill in a steady, maddening staccato.

The tag in his T-shirt is chafing the back of his neck and his cotton pajamas twist about his legs until he feels like he can’t move, can’t breathe.  He gets up.  He strips to his pants and gets back in bed.

It doesn’t help.  He still hears things, all the things.  He still can’t silence the noise, quiet the onslaught of unwanted sensation.  With a growl of frustration he sits up again, gets up, grabs his cashmere dressing gown off of the chair by the wardrobe, and…

The chair.  It’s ugly, small, uncomfortable – ridiculous thing.  He hates it, suddenly, and so he moves it to the other side of the room.  Better—yes.

But now the spot is conspicuously empty.  He’s no place to drape his trousers as he dresses, or to sit and think in the mornings when he first wakes.   The empty space needs filling.

And so, the now vacant chair by the hearth gets moved to his room.  And yes—that is better—instantly better.

The rain outside softens to a drizzle.  The thunder fades to a low and occasional distant rumble.   The tightness in his chest releases, and racing of his thoughts slows to a comforting nighttime cadence.

Better…  Yes.

He removes his dressing gown, drapes it over the arm of the chair, gets back into bed.

It’s quiet now.  The sheets are soft.  They smell good—clean.  Mrs. Hudson must have laundered them.

He gets up again.  Pulls the sheet from the bed.  Wraps it around himself.  Sits in the chair.  Better still.

The blanket draped over the back is wool.  Horrible!  The upholstery, a faded brocade.  Passable.  Mrs. Hudson’s freshly laundered sheet a cocoon, wrapped up tight, protecting him from too much—too much at once. 

Everything is John.  Everything.  How had he not seen it?

Mycroft always told him when he was a child—always.  _“You see, but you don’t observe”_

Had tried to tell him just a few hours before: _“Don’t get involved.”_

_“I’m not involved!”_

But, oh.  Oh…  _Human error._

And Mycroft is right—always right.  _Why must he always be right?!_

And he can’t care now, because: wool, tea, shampoo, soap, sweat, jam, ink…  So many things fighting for dominance, but none winning.  All of them balanced.  Together—John.


End file.
